


always a next time

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Tea, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: They need different things when the nightmares hit. John needs comfort. Harold, however, needs space.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	always a next time

**Author's Note:**

> For another [Tumblr prompt meme prompt](https://argylepiratewd.tumblr.com/post/631501704806957056/whumpbox-gentle-things-send-a-number-get-a). brxkenmess requested _4: post-nightmare comfort_. I've written John having nightmares [a couple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906634) [of times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414789), and [insomnia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203696), so Harold's the, er, lucky winner this time!

Harold snaps awake to a pounding heart and a screaming hip, and without a word, John kisses his cheek and gets up, presumably to make his tea.

Ever since childhood, he has been terrible at sleeping. In his younger days, it was the result of an overabundance of ideas, the damn things multiplying as soon as he was idle, taking him on flights of fancy that sometimes lasted for hours. He birthed much of his Machine in that state between the waking world and dreams, pulling code out of what felt like the ether and weaving it into something far bigger than himself.

These days, it—or _she_ , though he'll be damned if Root ever hears him say so—is the source of most of his issues, whether she stars in his musings or dreams or not. Tonight, it's one of the numbers going south—violently. Next time, who knows?

There is always, _always_ a next time.

Harold lies in the quiet dark, his only movement the pumping of his chest as he catches his breath, and his hand rubbing uselessly at the gnawing ache in his hip. Between his fading memories of the dream, he thinks of having John fetch one of his heatpacks for it later, as he listens to the familiar sounds of John preparing tea in the kitchen. John has it down to a science these days, and it's more comforting than words can express to hear the care John puts into making the beverage.

As he listens, slowly, Harold starts to remember how to breathe.

It's easier for him to rebuild his defenses in the silence, in the dark, with only Bear for company. John needs him in these moments, needs reassurance that he's alive and safe and still in love. But Harold is a very private person—always has been, always will be. John tried hugs and kisses early on, offering closeness and cuddles, but Harold felt like he was being smothered, like he was being stripped naked spiritually by the very being whose death was the star of his nightmares. Space. He needs space.

John gives him space, and as the sounds of running water, clinking kettles and spoons, unhurried footsteps filter from John's kitchen to the bed, the memory of the dream starts to fade from Harold's head. His pulse slows. His chest moves with ease. Even the bright pain in his hip becomes background noise, melding with the loud grumbling of his back and his neck, the milder complaints of bones and joints that started paining him years before the bombing.

By the time John has finished, Harold is sitting up in bed, the lamp on the nightstand turned on, his hand moving through Bear's soft fur. A quick glance at John's intact, unbloodied chest and belly tell him that it all was a dream, and he is able to accept John's kiss and the tea without a single protest from his brain. All is quiet in his head. He can breathe now.

"If you want to talk..." John trails off, laying a warm hand on Harold's shoulder, and Harold looks up at him with a smile.

"I know," he says. John is so good to him, so much better than a man like him deserves. He selfishly hopes John never realizes that. "Thank you."


End file.
